Gabriel's Angel (9 page)

“Laura, no matter what you were told, how you were threatened, I don't believe they could take the child.”

“That isn't enough? Don't you see? As long as there's a chance, I can't risk it. I'd never be able to fight them on their terms. I don't have the money, the connections.”

“Who are they?” When she hesitated, he took her hand again. “You've trusted me with this much.”

“Their name is Eagleton,” she said. “Thomas and Lorraine Eagleton of Boston.”

His brows drew together. He knew the name. Who didn't? But because of his family's position, it was more than a name, more than an image. “You were married to Anthony Eagleton?”

“Yes.” She turned to him then. “You knew him, didn't you?”

“Not well. Barely. He was more—” More Michael's age, he'd started to say. “He was younger. I met him once or twice when he came to the Coast.” And what he had seen hadn't impressed him enough to have him form any opinion. “I read that he had been killed in a car accident, and I suppose a wife was mentioned, but this past year has been a little difficult, and I didn't pay attention. My family has socialized with the Eagletons occasionally, but they aren't well acquainted.”

“Then you know they're an old, well-established family with old, well-established money. They consider this child a part of their . . . holdings. They've had me followed all across the country. Every time I would settle in a place and begin to relax I'd discover that detectives were making inquiries about me. I can't—I won't—let them find me.”

He rose, to pace, to light a cigarette, to try to organize his thoughts and, more, his feelings. “I'd like to ask you something.”

She sighed tiredly. “All right.”

“Once before, when I asked you if you were afraid, you said no, that you were ashamed. I want to know why.”

“I didn't fight back, and I didn't try hard enough to fix what was wrong. I just let it happen to me. You have no idea how difficult it is to sit here and admit that I let myself be used, that I let myself be beaten, that I let myself be driven down so low that I accepted it all.”

“Do you still feel that way?”

“No.” Her chin lifted. “No one's ever going to take control of my life again.”

“Good.” He sat on the hearth. The smoke from his cigarette disappeared up the draft. “I think you've had a hell of a time, angel, worse than anyone deserves. Whether you brought some of it on yourself, as you choose to think, or if it was just a matter of circumstances, doesn't really matter at this point. It's over.”

“It's not as easy as that, Gabe. I don't just have myself to worry about now.”

“How far are you willing to go to fight them?”

“I've told you I can't—”

He interrupted her with a wave of his hand. “If you had the means. How far?”

“All the way. As far and as long as it takes. But that isn't the point, because I don't have the means.”

He drew on his cigarette, studied it with apparent interest, then tossed it into the fire. “You would, if you were married to me.”

Chapter 5

She said nothing, could say nothing. He sat on the hearth, his legs folded up, his eyes very cool, very calm, on her face. Part of the enormity of his talent was his ability to focus on an expression and draw the underlying emotions out of it. Perhaps because he did it so well, he also knew how to mask emotions when they were his own.

She could hear the logs sizzling behind him. The midmorning sunlight sparkled through the frost on the windowpanes and landed at his feet. He seemed totally at ease, as though he'd just suggested that they have soup for lunch. If her life had depended upon it, Laura couldn't have said whether it meant any more to him than that.

Using the table for leverage, she rose.

“I'm tired. I'm going in to lie down.”

“All right. We can talk about this later.”

She whirled around, and it wasn't anguish or fear he saw on her face now, it was fury, livid and clear. “How could you sit there and say something like that to me after everything I've told you?”

“You might consider that I said it because of everything you've told me.”

“Oh, the Good Samaritan again.” She detested the bitterness in her voice, but she could do nothing to stop it. “The white knight, riding in full of chivalry and good intentions to save the bumbling, inept female. Do you think I should fall on my knees and be grateful? That I would blindly let myself be taken over again, fall back into the same pitiful, destructive pattern a second time, because a man offers me a way out?”

He thought about controlling his temper, then rose, deciding to let her see it. “I have no desire to control you, and I'll be damned if you're going to stand there and compare me with some weak-minded alcoholic wife-beater.”

“What then—the knight on a white charger, selflessly rescuing damsels in distress?”

He laughed at that, but his anger was still on the edge. “No one's ever accused me of that. I'm very selfish, which is another reason for my suggestion. I'm moody—you've been around me long enough to know that. I have a temper and I can get angry. But I don't hit women, and I don't use them.”

With an effort, she pulled her emotions back in and forced them to settle. “I didn't mean to imply that you did, or to compare you with someone else. It's the situation that's comparable.”

“One has nothing to do with the other. The fact that I have money only works to your advantage.”

“I didn't marry Tony for his money.”

“No.” His tone softened. “No, I'm sure you didn't. But in this case I'm willing to accept that you marry me for mine.”

“Why?”

Something flickered in his eyes and was gone before she could read it. “That might have been the wisest question to ask first.”

“Maybe you're right.” She already regretted the outburst of temper and harsh words, as she invariably did. “I'm asking it now.”

With a nod, he roamed the room, stopping before the nearly completed portrait. He stared at it, as he had stared at it countless times before, trying to understand, to define, not only Laura, but himself.

“I feel something for you. I'm not sure what it is, but it's very strong. Stronger than anything I've felt before.” He lifted a finger to the face on canvas. He wished he could explain himself completely, to himself, to her, but he'd always expressed himself best through painting. “I'm attracted to you, Laura, and I've discovered recently that I've been alone long enough.”

“That might be enough, almost enough, for marriage, but not for me, not to me. Not with what you'd be taking on.”

“I have some debts to pay,” he murmured, then turned to her again. “Helping you, and the child, might just clear the slate.”

Whatever anger she'd felt evaporated. It only took the kindness and the grief in his eyes. “You've already helped us, more than I can ever repay.”

“I don't want payment.” The impatience, the edge, was back in his voice. “What I want is you. How many ways do you want me to say it?”

“I don't think I want you to say it.” The nerves began to eat at her again, and she twisted her fingers together. He meant it. She had no doubt that he meant what he said. The prospect of being wanted by him both thrilled and terrified her. “Don't you see, I've already made one terrible mistake.”

He crossed to her, gently drawing her hands apart and into his. “You're not indifferent to me?”

“No, but—”

“You're not afraid of me?”

Some of the tension seeped out of her. “No.”

“Then let me help you.”

“I'm going to have another man's child.”

“No.” He took her face in his hands because he wanted her eyes on his. “Marry me, and the child is ours. Privately, publicly, totally.”

The tears came back. “They'll come.”

“Let them. They won't touch you again, and they won't take the baby.”

Safety. Could what had always eluded her really be only a promise away? She opened her mouth, knowing that agreement was on her tongue. Then her heart turned over in her chest and she lifted a hand to his cheek. “How could I do this to you?”

For an answer, he put his lips to hers. The need was there, she couldn't deny it, couldn't pretend it away. She tasted it as his mouth drew from hers. She felt it when his hand skimmed through her hair to brace, both possessive and supportive, at the back of her neck. Instinctively, wanting to give, she lifted her other hand to his face. They rested there, comforting.

She wasn't the only one who had demons, Laura thought. She wasn't the only one who needed love and understanding. Because he was strong, it was easy to forget that he, too, might have pain. Seeking to soothe, she drew him closer into her arms.

He could have sunk into her, into the softness, the generosity. This was what he wanted to capture on canvas, her warmth, her spirit. And this was what he was forced to admit he would never have the skill to translate. This part of her beauty, this most essential part, could never be painted. But it could be cherished.

“You need me,” he murmured as he drew her away. “And I need you.”

She nodded, then rested her head on his shoulder, because that seemed to say it all.

***

Due to fresh flurries, it was three days before Gabe risked a trip into town. Laura watched him as he downed a final cup of coffee before pulling on his coat.

“I'll be as quick as I can.”

“I'd rather you took your time and paid attention to the roads.”

“The Jeep drives like a tank.” He accepted the gloves she held out to him but didn't put them on. “I don't like leaving you alone.”

“Gabe, I've been taking care of myself for a long time.”

“Things have changed. My lawyers have probably sent the marriage license.”

Immediately she began to fuss with the breakfast dishes. “That would be quick work.”

“They get paid to work fast, and it's been three days since I contacted them. If I can arrange it, I'd like to bring a justice of the peace back here with me.”

A cup slipped out of her hand and plopped into the soapy water. “Today?”

“You haven't changed your mind?”

“No, but—”

“I want my name on the birth certificate.” He had a moment of panic, vague and disturbing, at her hesitation. “It would be less complicated if we were married before the baby's born.”

“Yes, that makes sense.” It seemed so rushed. She plunged her hands into the water and began to wash. Her first wedding had been rushed, too, a whirlwind of flowers and champagne and white silk.

“I realize you might prefer something a little more festive, but under the circumstances—”

“No.” She turned and managed a smile. “No, I don't care about that. If you can arrange it for today, here, that's fine.”

“All right, then. Laura, I'd feel better if you rested until I got back. You didn't sleep well.”

She turned back again. No, she hadn't slept well. The nightmare had come back, and she hadn't rested until Gabe had come in and finally slipped into bed with her. “I won't overdo.”

“I don't think it would tax your strength for you to kiss me good-bye.”

That made her smile. She turned, her hands still dripping, to lift her lips to his.

“Not even married yet and you're already kissing me as though we've been together twenty years.” He changed the mood simply by nipping her lip. In seconds she was clinging to him, and there was nothing casual about the embrace.

“Better,” he murmured. “Now go lie down. I'll be back in less than two hours.”

“Be careful.”

He closed the door. In moments she heard the sound of the Jeep's engine chugging to life. Moving into the living room, she watched Gabe drive away.

Strangely enough, even as the quiet settled over the cabin, she didn't feel alone. She felt nervous, she admitted with a little laugh. Brides were entitled to nerves. If Gabe had his way—and she'd come to believe that he nearly always did—they would be married that afternoon.

And her life, Laura realized, would change yet again.

This time it would be better. She would make it better.

As the ache in her lower back grew worse, she pressed her hand against it. Blaming the discomfort she'd been feeling all morning on the mattress and a restless night, she walked over to the portrait.

He'd finished it the day before. She knew, because he'd explained it to her, that the paint would take a few days to set and dry completely, so she didn't touch it. She sat on the stool Gabe sometimes used and studied her own face.

So this was how he saw her, she thought. Her skin was pale, with only a faint shadow of color along her cheekbones. It was partly that whiteness, that translucence, that made her appear like the angel he sometimes called her. She looked as though she were caught in a daydream, one of the many she'd indulged in during the hours Gabe had painted. As she had told him—as she had complained—there was too much vulnerability. It was in her eyes, around her mouth. There was something strong and independent about the pose, about the way her head was tilted, but that lost, sad look in her eyes seemed to negate the strength.

She was reading too much into it, Laura decided as the pain dug, deep and dull, into her back. Rubbing at it, she rose to look around the cabin.

She would be married here, in a matter of hours. There would be no crowd of well-wishers, no pianist playing romantic songs, no trail of rose petals. Yet, with or without the trimmings, she would be a bride. She might not be able to make it look festive, but at least she could tidy up.

The pain in her back drove her to lie down. Two hours later she heard the Jeep coming down the lane. For a moment longer she lay there, working to block out the discomfort. Later, she told herself, she would soak the ache away in a hot tub. She walked into the living room just as Gabe ushered an elderly couple into the cabin.

“Laura, this is Mr. and Mrs. Witherby. Mr. Witherby is a justice of the peace.”

“Hello. It's so nice of you to come all this way.”

“Part of the job,” Mr. Witherby said, adjusting his fogging glasses. “'Sides that, your young man here wasn't going to take no for an answer.”

“Don't you worry about this old man here.” Mrs. Witherby patted her husband's arm and studied Laura. “He loves to complain.”

“Can I get you something, some coffee?”

“Don't you fuss. Mr. Bradley's got a carload of supplies. You just sit down and let him take care of it.” She had already walked over to lead Laura to the couch with her frail hands. “Man's nervous as a goose at Christmas,” she confided. “Let him keep busy for a spell.”

Though she couldn't imagine Gabe being nervous about anything, she thought the Witherbys would expect such emotion from a man about to marry. Laura listened to Gabe rattling bags and cans in the kitchen. “Maybe I should help him.”

“Now, you sit right here.” Mrs. Witherby motioned to her husband to sit, as well. “A woman's entitled to be waited on when she's carrying. The good Lord knows you won't have much time to sit once that baby's born.”

Grateful, Laura shifted to ease the throbbing in her back. “You have children?”

“Had six of them. Now we've got twenty-two grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.”

“And another on the way,” Mr. Witherby stated, pulling out a pipe.

“You can just put that smelly thing away,” his wife told him. “You aren't smoking up this room with this lady expecting.”

“I wasn't going to light it,” he said, and began to chew on the stem.

Satisfied that her husband had been put in his place, Mrs. Witherby turned back to Laura. “That's a pretty picture there.” She indicated a sprawling landscape that might very well sell for an amount in six figures. “Your man's an artist fellow?”

Her man. Laura experienced a twinge of panic and a glow of pleasure at the phrase. “Yes, Gabe's an artist.”

“I like pictures,” she said comfortably. “Got me one of the seashore over my sofa.”

Gabe walked back in carrying an armful of flowers. Feeling awkward, he cleared his throat. “They sold them at the market.”

“And he bought them out, too,” Mrs. Witherby cackled. Then, with a few wheezes, she heaved herself off the couch. “You got a vase? She can't be carrying all of them.”

“No, at least . . . I don't know.”

“Men.” She sighed and then winked at Laura. “Give them to me and let me take care of it. You can do something useful, like putting more wood on that fire. Wouldn't want your lady to catch a chill.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

If he'd ever felt more of a fool, he couldn't remember when. Wanting to keep his hands busy, he moved to the fire.

“Don't let her browbeat you, boy,” Mr. Witherby advised him from the comfort of his chair. “She's already spent fifty-two years nagging me.”